Revolution Business (30 page)

"Alright." Yul sighed and tugged the chair onto the middle of the plastic carpet-protector mat. "I'm getting tired, though, bro." He sat down and glanced at the back of his left wrist.

Huw looked at the floor. "Hey, you're off the target-"

He stopped. Yul, and the chair, had disappeared.

"Shit." Elena will fucking
kill
me,
he thought incoherently. He slid a foot forward, then stopped. Opening the laptop again, he tapped out a quick note. Then he stood on the correct spot-not a foot to one side, where Yul had been-and looked at the knotwork he carried on a laminated badge, ready to world-walk.

The headache was sudden and harsh, a classic interpenetration blast. "Ow."
He's moving about.
Huw swore a bit more, then went and stood precisely where Yul had put the chair, and tried again.

The walls of the shack vanished, replaced by trees and sunlight and a warm summer breeze. Huw staggered, jostling Yul, who spun round with pistol drawn. "Joker's bane, bro! Don't
do
that!"

"Sorry." Huw bent double, the headache and visual distortions coinciding with a huge wave of nausea. He barely noticed the chair, lying to its side. The grass around its wheels was almost knee-length.
Should have surveyed more thoroughly,
he thought, then lost his attention to the desperate problem of hanging onto his lunch.

After a minute, he got things under control. "You going to be alright?" Yul asked anxiously. "Because one of us needs to go back."

"Yes." Huw stayed bent over. "Not just yet."

"I fell over when I came across. I think I bruised my ass."

"I'm not surprised." He retched again, then wiped his mouth. "Ow." Shuffling round, he knelt, facing the tussock Yul had stood in. "We missed an angle."

"We did?"

"Yeah." Huw pointed. "You had a foot on the ground."

"So?"

"So you brought the chair over. And you were grounded. When you sat in it, you were fiddling with one armrest." Huw shuffled towards it. "Right. You had your fingers curled under it. Were you touching it?"

"I think so." Yul frowned.

"Show me." Huw was nearly dancing with impatience.

Hulius raised the chair and sat in it slowly. He lowered one foot to touch the ground, then shuffled for comfort, leaned forward with the fingers of his left hand curled under the armrest.

"Okay, hold that position." Huw contorted himself to look under the armrest. "I see. Were you fidgeting with the post?"

"Post?"

"The metal thing-yeah, that. The fabric on the armrest cover is stapled to the underside of the arm. And that in turn is connected to the frame of the chair by a metal post. Huh. Of course if you try to world-walk home, holding the chair up by the underside of those arms, it'll go with you, as long as the wheels aren't fouling anything."

"You think that's all there is to it?" Yul looked startled.

"No, but it's a start. We go across, we take ourselves obviously-and also the stuff we're carrying, the stuff we're physically connected to, but not the earth itself. The planet is a bit too big to carry. The question is, how far does the effect propagate? I've been thinking electrical or capacitive, but that's wrong. I should probably be thinking in terms of quantum state coherence.
And
the exclusion effect, as a separate spoiler, to make it more complicated. What
is
a coherent quantum state in a many-worlds Everett-Wheeler cosmology, anyway?"

Yul yawned elaborately. "Does it matter? Way I see it, the lords of the post won't be enthusiastic about folks realizing they're not needed for the corvée. It could be a power thing, bro, to bind us together by misleading us as to the true number of participants required to set up a splinter network. If it only takes two guys and a wheelbarrow to do the work of six… that might present a problem, yes? On top of which you're the only relative I know who's mad enough to try to disprove something that everyone
knows
is the way things work, just in case everyone else is wrong. Must be that fancy education of yours." He paused. "Not that I believe a word of it, but I wouldn't mention it to anyone except her majesty if I were you, bro. They might not understand…"

The next day, Miriam received the visitor she'd been half dreading and half waiting for. Rising that morning, she'd donned Helge like a dress even as her maids were helping her into more material garments. Then she'd started the day by formally swearing Brilliana and Sir Alasdair to her service, before witnesses, followed by such of her guards as Sir Alasdair recommended to her. Then she'd gone out into the garden, just to get out of the way of the teeming servants-Brill's self-kicking anthill was still settling down and finding itself various niches in the house-and partly to convince herself that she was free to do so. And that was where her mother found her, sitting on a bench in an ornamental gazebo. And proceeded to lecture her about her newfound status.

"You're going to have to be a queen widow for a while," the Duchess Patricia voh Hjorth d'Wu ab Thorold explained to her. Wearing a voluminous black silk dress that she had somehow squeezed into the seat of an electric wheelchair, which in turn must have taken two strapping couriers to carry across in pieces, she posed an incongruous sight. "Probably not forever, but you should plan on doing it for at least the next nine months. It'll give you a lot of leverage, but don't misunderstand-you won't be ruling the country. There's no tradition of rule by women in this culture. We-the junta-have agreed we're going to present ourselves in public as a council of regents. They'll be the ones who do the ruling-making policy decisions-but I've held out for you to have a seat on the council. You'll have title and nobility in your own right, and the power of high justice, the ability to arraign and try nobles. You'll sign laws agreed by the assembly of lords, as a member of the council of regents. Which in turn means the Clan council can't ignore you."

"Yes, Mom," Helge said obediently.

"Don't patronize me and I won't patronize you, kid. The quid pro quo is that there's a lot of ceremonial that goes with the job, a
lot
of face time. You're going to have to be Helge in public for ninety percent of that. Also, the Clan council will expect you to issue decrees and perform administrative chores to order. They say rabbit, you hop-at least at first. How much input you manage to acquire into
their
decisions is up to you, but my advice would be to do it very slowly and carefully. Don't risk overrunning your base, as you did last time. I'm going to be around to help. Our enemies won't be expecting that. And you'll have Brilliana. Olga and Riordan seem to
like
you, Sky Father only knows why, but that's another immense advantage because those two are holding two whole branches of Security together right now. I'd advise against trying to swear them to you-nothing's likely to scare the backwoods conservatives into doing something stupid like the fear that you're trying to take over Clan Security-but Riordan leans our way and Olga is one of us."

"Define
us,"
Helge challenged.

"Us
is you and me and everyone else who wants to drag the Clan kicking and screaming into the modern world." Her mother's cheek dimpled.
"Next
stupid question?"

"So you tell me you've fixed up this situation where I'll have a lot of leverage but I'm going to be a figurehead, and I have the power to basically try the nobility, even pass laws, but I can't go head-to-head with the council, and if I push the limits too hard the reactionaries might try to assassinate me, and by the way, I'm going to be on public display almost all the time. Is that the picture?" Helge stood up. "What else am I missing?"

"Your own power base," Patricia said crisply. She peered at Miriam. "Have you sworn Brilliana yet? Your head of security?"

"Yes-"

"That young whippersnapper Huw? Or his brother and
his
doxy?"

"Ma!-" She sat down again.

"You're not thinking ahead. You need them on your side, they're young and enthusiastic and willing-what's stopping you?"

"Urn. An opportunity?"

"Exactly! So manufacture one. Invite them to a party. Better still, invite all the progressives. Be visible."

"But I don't know who-"

"Brilliana does. Rely on her!"

"You think I can do that?" Helge asked disbelievingly.

"No." Her mother grinned wickedly. "I
know
you can. You just need to make up your mind to do it." The grin faded. "But. On to other matters. It's been a long time since we talked about the birds and the bees, hasn't it?"

"Oh, Ma." Helge kicked her skirts out. "I'm not a teenager anymore."

"Of course not." Patricia nodded. "But you didn't grow up here. Can I offer some blunt advice?"

"You're going to, whether I want it or not, right?"

"Oh M- Helge. You kill me. Very well, it's this: You're a grown woman and you've got needs. And if you wait until the bun's finished baking and are reasonably discreet, nobody will raise an eyebrow. Once you've been publicly acknowledged as the queen-widow, you're… in effect you're married, to a dead, absentee husband. Marriage is about property, and status, and rank, and if you're fool enough you can throw it all away. So don't do that, okay? Take a lover, but be discreet, use contraception. And whatever you do, don't mess with the help,
especially
don't mess with your sworn vassals. Pick a man who's respectably married and owes you no obligation, and what you get up to harms no one. But unmarried men, or vassals? They're trouble."

Helge gaped, speechless. After a moment she managed to shut her mouth. "Mother!"

Patricia sighed. "Kid, the rules are
different
here. What have I been trying to beat into that thick skull of yours?"

"But, but-"

"You're confusing love and marriage. That old song, love and marriage, horse and carriage? It's rubbish." She snorted dismissively. "At least, that's not how any self-respecting aristocracy comports itself. You marry for power and heirs and you take your fun where you find it." For a moment she looked wistful: "That's one of the things I'm
really
going to miss about not living in the United States anymore. But just because a society runs on arranged marriages, it doesn't mean people don't fall in love. Just as long as they're discreet in public."

"Oh god." Helge made to run a hand through her hair, stopped at the last moment as she touched the jeweled pins that held it in place. "That is just so screwed up…"

"I realize it must seem that way to you." The dowager grimaced. "The rules here are
very
different."

"Ick."

"It's not that bad, kid." Patricia's grimace relaxed into a smile. "You're a
widow.
You've graduated from the marriage market,
summa cum laude."

"I don't need to hear this right now," said Helge. "I am
so
not interested in men right now-"

"But you
will
be, and you need to know this stuff now, before it happens. Unless you want to let being a victim define you for the rest of your life, you're going to look back on this one day and shrug and say, 'but I moved on.' "

Helge stared at her mother sharply. "What do you mean?"

Patricia looked her in the eye. "Your-my husband-was a real piece of work. But I didn't let that get between
us,
between you and me, kid."

Helge looked away. "I'm not-"

"You're my daughter.
Mine,
not his. That's all the revenge that's good for me."

After a moment, Helge looked back at her mother. Her eyes were dark, glistening with unshed tears. "I had no idea."

"I didn't want you to.
I really
didn't want to lay that on you." Patricia held out a hand. After a moment, her daughter took it. "But you wanted to know why I want to change the Clan."

"Oh, Mom." Helge rose, then knelt in front of the wheelchair. She laid her head on her mother's lap, hugging her. "I'm sorry."

"Hush. It's not your fault."

"But I thought you-"

"Yeah, I know what you thought. It's the usual Clan mother/daughter rivalry. But like I said, we're not going to play by their rules. Are you with me?"

"Yes," said Helge.

"Excellent." Her mother stroked the nape of her neck lightly. "You and me, kid. Together we'll make this thing work."

In the end, the coup came down to simple economics. The emergency government had neglected to pay their employees for three weeks; whereas Sir Adam's party had, if not put a chicken in every pot, at least put a loaf of bread and tripe in dripping on every table that was spread with yesterday's copy of
The Leveler
in lieu of a tablecloth. They didn't have money but they had plenty of guns, and so they'd sent the party militia to seize control of the dockside warehouses. Wherein they found plenty of bulk grain that had been stockpiled for export, and which they lost no time in distributing to the people. It was a short-term gambit, but it paid off: Nothing buys friends in a famine like a temporarily full belly.

The morning of the coup came three days after the Patriot Club withdrew from the emergency assembly. Patriot gangs had taken to the streets of New London, protesting the Levelers' presence in the debating chamber with paving stones and pry bars. They'd scoured the army barracks, recruiting the wrong kind of soldiers-angry, unpaid young men, their bellies full of looted beer, looking for someone to blame. "We can't allow this to continue," Sir Adam had said, his voice tinny over the crackling electrograph conference call. "They'll cause chaos, and the people will blame us for losing control of the situation. So they must be stopped. Tomorrow morning, I want to see every man we've got turned out and ready for action. The Freedom Riders will patrol the streets around Parliament and the government buildings on Grosvenor Street; those of you in charge of departments will go to your offices with your guards and secure them against intrusion."